I think of old Ireland, across the blue wave,
I think of old Ireland, the land of the brave,
’Tis the home of the brave, where the wild shamrocks grow,
Oh, I think of old Ireland, wherever I go.
And ’tis soon I’ll be home, in the land I love best,
In my own dearest Emerald Isle of the West,
Though now I am chasing the wild buffalo,
For I think of old Ireland wherever I go.
Yet though far away from that dear blessed sod,
I still offer up prayers to my country’s God,
To chase from her borders the base Saxon foe,
For I think of old Ireland wherever I go.
Dear land of the shamrock, and sweet smelling brier,
Dear scenes of my childhood which never could tire,
When a boy I picked beech-nuts in wild Glenaboe,
Oh, I think of old Ireland, wherever I go.
And how oft have I drank out of Barranane’s Well,
In whose clear waters there lurks a bright spell,
The afflicted go there to find ease for their woe,
For I think of old Ireland wherever I go.
And how oft have I swam in the Blackwater’s tide,
And roam’d the sweet wild woods around Castle Hyde,
For it’s through its wild woodland the Blackwaters flow,
Oh, I think of old Ireland wherever I go.
And how oft have I sported through its pastures so green,
Where the wild fragrant daisy can always be seen,
For flowers in luxuriance there always do grow,
Oh, I think of old Ireland wherever I go.
But all my sad wanderings soon will be o’er,
And that isle of my heart I will never leave more,
Though deep is her sorrow, and bitter her woe,
Oh, I think of old Ireland wherever I go.